


Something You're Good At

by TVateMyBrain (datsunblue)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, John just wants to get off, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Swearing, emotional denial, john is not talking about it, trash!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/datsunblue/pseuds/TVateMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's a small sound, compressed air escaping from the back of a throat. Made smaller, being muffled by the press of lips against fabric."</p><p> </p><p>Dirty....stuff.<br/>(Also, John is trash.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something You're Good At

**Author's Note:**

> “hhhngh”  
> * * *  
> “Sorry. I just...”  
> “We should get going.”  
> * * *  
> “What are we doing?”  
> “Something you're good at....”

* * * * *

 

_It's a small sound, compressed air escaping from the back of a throat. Made smaller, being muffled by the press of lips against fabric._

 

 

It's the aftermath of the action that seems to get him. Suspect apprehended, loose ends tied up, and Sherlock once more safe. For now, at least.

It's when the world comes rushing back in, but the adrenalin is still high. That's when he finds himself hard, aching, and tempted to sneak off somewhere private. But he doesn't. He behaves himself. Waits.

At least, until he is back in the flat, back under the shower spay, where all sins are washed away.

 

 

_It's a small sound, but it reverberates around his skull like a gunshot._

 

* * * * *

 

 

There is only one piece of the puzzle missing now. The murder weapon.

Sherlock finds it of course.

Only minutes after John has incapacitated the murderer, and handed him over to Greg, he finds himself chasing after Sherlock down a back alley a few blocks away. The alley narrows down and down, to a dead end behind some bins. A tiny area with a grimed up window high above, facing into it, a grate in the concrete beneath them and nothing else.

Sherlock nudges John back against the wall so he can get at the grate, levering it up with his gloved fingers.

'Ha!”

He pulls out the gun, grinning manically, pale eyes twinkling up at John in the darkness, so close that John can feel the radiant warm from him against his legs. _Brilliant,_ he thinks. _Brilliant bastard_.

His next thought is, _did I phase out for a moment there_? Because the gun is on the ground, and Sherlock's cheek is pressed to John's thigh.

Sherlock's fingers dig into the back of John's right thigh. Sherlock's nose presses against the crease between John's leg and torso, and he is inhaling.

Sherlock is smelling him through his trousers.

 

Where John was half-hard, his cock leaps to full attention. It's far out in the vanguard, while John's mind has only just managed to think, _what?_

An inkling of shame tries to make itself felt, but gets drowned out by the sensation of Sherlock's nose tracing his erection, and the warmth of Sherlock's breath against it through the fabric.

Sherlock has shifted to his knees. _He'll have to dryclean those trousers_ , says a distant whisper in John's brain, while a much more insistent thought blinks in neon. _Sherlock on his knees._

_On his fucking knees._

On his knees amidst the dirt and the smell of rotting garbage.

 

He's felt those curls beneath his fingers before. Checking the scalp for contusions. Now his hand spasms and grasps them. His hips stutter forward minutely, as his shoulders press back against the cold brick. Sherlock's hands at his belt, his fly, and then, _sweet jesus fuck_ , his mouth.

_His fucking mouth._

 

Sherlocks gloves are gone. One hand, cool fingers against John's hip, holding him down against the bricks. The other..... _christ._ He wants to come in that mouth. As soon as he thinks it, his balls start to tighten. He doesn't even try to push Sherlock away, he just lets it roll over him, and Sherlock takes it, sucks him dry until John's knees are shaking. John has just enough wits about him to realise Sherlock's other hand is down his own trousers, working furiously, and then Sherlock's face is pressed into John's jumper, and that small sound is coming out of him.

 

_It's a small sound, but it's effective._

 

 

 

John is thankful for the darkness of the alley. They say nothing as they put themselves to rights. John looks upward at the night sky, at a single star barely discernible in the London night, rather than face Sherlock. But Sherlock says nothing until they reach the mouth of the alley. Then all he says is, “Find us a cab, I'll deal with this.”, gesturing at the gun.

 

 

 

* * * *

John begins to think he imagined it. Some sort of stress induced hallucination. It's easier to act as though it were merely some strange dream. That seems the best way to deal with it. Sherlock behaves no differently. After a few stilted interactions, things return to normal. Well, Baker Street normal that is. All is well.

Until five cases later.

 

After a fist fight, John decides that what he really wants is a pint. He has fucking earned one. He tells Sherlock that he can bloody well buy him one after the day he's had thank you very much. For once there are no protests. Sherlock sits in the corner with him, making deductions with a smirk, while John drinks his pint. It goes down quickly, and John is still feeling edgy, still half aroused. _Perhaps I could use another pint_ , he thinks. Perhaps there's a stall in the bathroom. It's not that busy in here, and it won't take much.

 

“I'll have another.” he says to Sherlock as he gets up to make his way to the back of the pub. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but he doesn't much care.

 

Three stalls and a long urinal, stinking of piss and chemicals, but not looking too filthy, for a pub bathroom. He investigates the stalls one by one, and is eyeing the third when the door opens behind him. He steps into the stall, so he won't look suspicious. But before he can turn to close the door, Sherlock is crowding in behind him, locking them in. John opens his mouth to ask what's going on, but the words freeze in his throat. He knows what he wants this to be. His cock knows what it wants this to be. Sherlock is looming over him in the confined space. John doesn't look him in the eye, just stares at the button of his shirt, just at eye height, and just above where the pale skin of Sherlock's chest begins to reveal itself. He wants to press his tongue just there. But he won't.

Sherlock shoves against him, turning him, backing him into the wall. Presses against him with his hips, sliding his knee between John's thighs, grinding against him, and fuck that's good, _that's fucking good._ John presses back, not looking up. He closes his eyes and the back of his head hits the wall with a dull thud. He just wants this. This hot pressure of a body against his own. The panting of breath against his ear. The frantic chase for that release. Uncomplicated. Just, this. Whatever this is.

 

He slides his hand beneath the belstaff, skimming that bony hip, fingers fumbling to grab that ass, to pull Sherlock against him more firmly. His fingertips biting into flesh over fabric. Sherlock grunts softly, deep, and his gluteus maximus go taunt under John's hand as he thrusts forward, erection forced against John's stomach, but at the same time, Sherlock's belt crushes into John's ribs. John grabs for it automatically, and Sherlock seems to take this for escalation, because he is yanking at John's belt, untucking John's T-shirt from his trousers, and pushing it up his chest and out of the way. When it falls back down, Sherlock tugs it out impatiently, stretches it up and over John's jumper and, pushes the hem of it into John's mouth.

John is startled by Sherlock's fingers between his lips, almost turns away. _Too much._ But then his teeth close down on the fabric, and Sherlock's thumb finds a nipple, and tongue and teeth follow. And John's pants are being shoved down, his cock springing free, and as he watches Sherlock's huge hand engulf him, he almost lets out a whimper. But if there's one thing being in the army taught him, it's stealth. Which is a good thing, because at that moment they hear the bathroom door swing open.

The noise of the bar amplifies for a few seconds, then muffles again as the door closes.

The both freeze, breaths suddenly shallow. John's eyes widen, but still he doesn't dare look Sherlock in the face. The most he allows himself, is the curve of the neck. Admiring the way the tendon strains there, the pulse skittering beneath the flesh. Ever so slowly, he lowers his head, presses his forehead into the skin just above that collar, his breath quick and shallow, t-shirt still jammed between his teeth.

Sherlock's hand is paused, tight around the head of his cock, and even though they are not moving, John feels the pressure building inside him. He registers dimly, the sound of someone taking a leak at the urinal. By the time footsteps make their way back to the door, John is on the very edge, beginning to rock into Sherlock's fist. His nose is full of the smell of Sherlock, slightly sweaty, masculine, a bit of hair product, Baker Street, home, and then Sherlock's hand is moving, and John is coming all over that huge thumb and forefinger, so clever against his frenulum.

 

He stands there for long moments, eyes shut, mouth gone slack, just breathing against Sherlock's collar, feeling boneless and dirty and good.

When finally he thinks of Sherlock, and presses a hand forward clumsily into Sherlock's crotch, only to meet with softness. Sherlock cringes back away from him, smoothly turning to grab some paper and wipe his hand.

 

“Sorry. I just...” John starts, not quite a whisper.

Sherlock clears his throat. “We should get going.”

 

 

John doesn't get his second pint.

 

* * * *

 

John has a date. Something like four months later. Summertime. Dinner, an evening stroll. A bit of snogging. The promise of more, next time. She has a lovely laugh.

Somehow, he doesn't manage a next time. Case comes up, plans get cancelled. Too much time passes.

 

He has a drunken pash and a grope with Sarah when they go out for work drinks one night, but she laughs it off and pushes him away. He goes home feeling oddly lonely, considering Sherlock is right there at the kitchen table, glued to his microscope and demanding tea.

Instead of making tea, John takes a shower and wanks off, feeling sorry for himself.

 

* * * * 

 

The next day, a Saturday, Sherlock rouses him from his hangover early, for a quick race around London. Case solved by early afternoon, they stop for a late breakfast, then head home, where John falls asleep on the couch. His dreams are slippery, nebulous, daytime dreams. The kind that voices and traffic noises slip in and out of. Sherlock must have been speaking to him, as he often does when John isn't there.

When John opens his eyes, the light from the window is dim and golden, and Sherlock is standing over him, in T-shirt and pyjama pants which do not quite hide his erection. His head is tilted to the side.

 

“You were dreaming, I think.” Sherlock's voice is soft.

 

Not entirely awake, still wrapped in shreds of the dream, John rolls onto his side, props his head up on an elbow, and reaches out to grasp Sherlock's pants and pull him forward. He keeps pulling, and the waistband dips lower and lower until Sherlock's erection is revealed.

Sherlock sighs, and brings one knee up to rest on the couch next to John, and John reaches up to stroke his fingers along the length of that beautiful cock, silky and warm, and attached to this beautiful man of sinew and bone, sharp and clever. He brings his lips up to meet the head, because that's what lips do. It's sloppy and uncoordinated, but right.

John explores, with tongue and lips and fingertips. While Sherlock's right hand grips the back of the couch, the fingers of his left hand dance through John's hair, playing him. Like the Stradivarius. John hums. Sherlock pants, tempo rising.

 

“John, _John._ ”

 

John pulls back, the tip of Sherlock brushing his open mouth as he works the shaft with his fingers. A half a dozen more pulls, and the wet heat hits his lips, his tongue, runs down his chin. He sucks the head gently as Sherlock shudders, then lets go, as Sherlock turns, and collapses onto the couch, his back anchored in the curve of John's stomach, one arm spread over John's hip and thigh, the other along his arm and shoulder. Fingers curled in a limp fist against John's collarbone.

 

John brings two fingers to his lips, touching the rapidly cooling come. Slippery, and real. It tastes strange. _Shit. I just sucked off my flatmate._ His mind stalls on that thought. It's like being faced with a brick wall reaching forever in three directions.

 

Sherlock sighs loudly and disentangles himself.

“Tea?” It's an offer for a change, and not a demand. Sherlock is heading for the kitchen.

 

“Yeah.”

John gets up, wipes his mouth on his hand, stretches, and goes to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He must stand there in front of the mirror for a good long while, before he finally mutters to his reflection; “What are we doing?”, because Sherlock is standing in the doorway holding his cup of tea, when he answers.

 

“Something you're good at.” There is a pause, as he puts the cup down by the sink for John.

“Not talking about it.”

 

 

 

* * * *

_End_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
